


Clowning Around

by BlueSimba



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Gen, One Shot Collection, Psychological, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6321238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimba/pseuds/BlueSimba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Tokyo Ghoul x Reader] They're going to drag you down into mayhem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Joker | Furuta

**Author's Note:**

> Manga spoilers below.

Revenge, Furuta thinks, is best served raw, seasoned with frayed emotions. 

He’s a bit curious—more like downright _obsessed_ —with uncovering the identity of the One-Eyed King. Not caring if he’s stained his hands, he’s infiltrated numerous organizations to uncover even a speck of dirt regarding the elusive subject; at this point, he’s desperate for information, so much so that he’s probably willing to give a kidney, or kill someone and cover it up as collateral damage. Though, he’ll never admit to something like that. That’d make him vulnerable, prone to misinformation and the schemes of others. 

Furuta can’t allow that, especially when he holds the cards. He’s almost got a royal flush, but _almost_ isn’t good enough. Having been doing his job for a while (and in his opinion, being excellent at it), he needs absolutes, not anything less. Subjecting himself to hostility, he’s even paying that damned ghoul a visit again after what happened last time. A hollow smile pulls strings, upturning his lips. Furuta’s unnerving smiles never reach his eyes, and perhaps that’s a good thing, because in all honesty, his nefarious eyes are creepy, too. If his eyes and smile met, it’d be fuel for nightmares. 

Rubbing salt into fresh wounds is Furuta’s favorite hobby. Seeing expressions twist in horror gives him satisfaction. Whether that’s psychologically healthy or not doesn’t really concern him. All that matters is knowing that he has complete control over someone, no matter who they are, for a few minutes while he graciously informs them of a generous deed he’s done. 

Heart twisting in pleasure, he can’t help but look forward to a wonderful visit. Gloved hands carry a container of flesh like it’s the Holy Grail; Furuta’s excited, eagerly awaiting to see a distraught look cover Eto’s smug face. He knows that it’ll be good enough to archive in his memories—playing as his life flashes before his eyes. The flesh’s scent wafts into his nostrils. It should be revolting, or at least disturbing, but his pace seems to quicken while his footsteps crescendo. 

His grin stretches. Truly, revenge is his favorite thing on this forsaken planet. He can only live a fraction of a normal person’s life, so why not enjoy it as much as possible? 

 

Actions are starting to show his desperation. He’s exhausting his list of supplies, people or ghouls that owe him, or that he’s threatened in some way. He calls it _intellectual coercion_. Internally, he’s beyond impatient, willing to sell classified secrets to anyone as long as they’ve got what he’s looking for, but externally if anyone was to see him, they’d never notice a difference. Furuta’s cautious beyond normal means, that’s not surprising considering how many sides he’s playing. Sometimes, he even loses sight of himself in all of the chaos. 

Begrudgingly admitting to himself that his list of supplies is running low, he’s almost embarrassed, maybe even disgusted, that he has to resort to this: talking to you. An enigma—that’s what he’d classify you as. Someone who deals in the art of trading information. However, he’d have to say your level is subpar to his own (though, the same can be said for anyone compared to him). Credentials still respectable? Yes. As daring? No. 

Furuta’s unsure of when you came into his life. You were introduced in some way that he can’t be bothered to remember, and ever since, you’ve been there, subtly jabbing him like a thorn. There are a lot of things that he dislikes about you, enough to where he could make a full-fledged list. The quality he detests most, however, is your sense of humor. How you act like you toy with him. Maybe all of your traits irritate him because you’re better than he gives you credit for.

Brushing all of the pesky thoughts out of his head, he opens the glass door to a café, signaling the routine chime to sound. He doesn’t have to glance around to find you patiently sipping on a hot drink, already knowing where you’ll be. Without missing a beat, he politely greets the staff as he treks toward you, offering a hollow smile to everyone that flashes him one of their own. Fingers curl around the top of a seat, and he pulls it out smoothly, sitting himself on a cushion, and folding his hands over the table. The smell of your beverage trespasses into his nostrils. It doesn’t smell as delicious as the flesh from earlier. 

“Hello, Furuta.” 

And with your greeting alone, you’ve already managed to rile him.


	2. Boogeyman | Kaneki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manga spoilers below.

He’s like a shot of vodka that slides across a wooden bar, or a sunset that bleeds over the horizon. Something that leaves a scorching aftertaste, lurking in the depths of your senses—your mind. His red eye loses its sight; not literally, but metaphorically. When he steps over the lines he drew years ago, his eye fails. He _chooses_ not to see it. 

Actions ranging from simple to complex harbor ferocious malice. Even when he turns the frail page in a book it sounds like he’s devising schemes to end lives, ghouls or humans, it doesn’t matter. The hollow sounds of his steps condemn anyone, everyone. Round glasses condense everything. An unnerving smirk will crawl on his face, bear its fangs in a wide grin, leaving no room as others choke on its shadow. Looking above the top of his frames, he’ll see a birdcage, old and rotten, mockingly pleading to be torn down. Almost no one else can see it, the creaking birdcage. Perhaps it’s why irritation hides beneath his devilish grin. 

Kaneki used to elicit a flame when he read. Tender lips would spiral around pronunciation, barely audible as rain tapped the window, asking to be invited in because his voice was that alluring. Sometimes if you were fortunate, he’d run his fingers through your hair, occasionally pulling on it to make sure you were still there. Right there. With him. It was one of the many habits he had; you’re not sure if he still has them, seeing as he traded his eyepatch for a briefcase. That deal was rotten, just like he is now. Kaneki is decomposing. Emotionally, psychologically—in every possible way.

Eyes preoccupied with seeing red, he doesn’t stop it. 

His brewing eyes and stretched grin perturb anyone that comes in contact with him. Excluding the others that can see the creaking birdcage, of course. 

Months ago (or has it been years?), his tales would keep you up at night, echoing in your head. His dreams spoke of fixing everything that was wrong. Maybe he’s still trying to do that today. You don’t know. The warped perspective hides whatever’s ricocheting behind that indecipherable face. Unlike before, now he keeps you up for a different reason.

Fear.

As a flittering flame wavers while he reads, his voice is no longer soothing nor sincere, but sinister in all ways imaginable. Dulcet page turning now sounds like shrieks; Kaneki’s not the blanket grabbed when you’re horrified. He’s the thing staring at you from the depths of the dark.

He’s what he wanted to fix.

The Boogeyman. 


	3. When the Dead Talk Back | Kaneki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implicit manga spoilers below.

There was a time, Kaneki recalls as bitter coffee rolls over his tongue, when he read for the absolute joy of reading. He felt elation when plunging into dreary worlds conjured by authors like him—those who had an affinity for the morbidly twisted, yet dress as everyone else did. Normally. As they sipped drinks, walking as everyone else did, no one would guess their fixations, and that was perfectly fine by him. He’d continue to flip to the next page, eyes twinkling with mirth. At the time, reading was a gift, something to do whenever possible. 

In those early times, when he’d be found conversing idly with Hide over cups of coffee, reading was for pleasure. Sure, like any other university student he’d have to use it for tremendously long essays, or interpreting haphazardly written notes scrawled across the whiteboard, which weren’t fun in any regards, but most of the time, reading was for that sense of euphoria—a taste he craved for. He once compared it to tasting waters from the Fountain of Youth; however cheesy it might’ve been, he wasn’t wrong. That’s how he felt when reading. 

Meeting you was one of the cruelest contortions of fate. You didn’t leisurely stroll into that beloved café with him, nor did you understand the complete complexity behind his simple face. Instead, before and after draining lectures, you’d talk of the evolution of language—how it’s always changing. And art. He remembers that you liked to talk about art, especially about Michelangelo. One of your most passionate conversations was about art, actually. Kaneki wishes that the excitement in your eyes would always flare in rhapsody. 

A quiet chuckle flutters through his lips. It’s dry. Almost instantly, he draws parallels to a governing theme of literature: nothing is permanent. When someone dies, life goes on. The world continues to spin, welcoming infantile screams from all over the planet. Under the guise of his breath, he mutters the name _"Ozymandias."_

Kaneki would’ve seen you as a light years ago. But now— _now_ , you’re nothing of the sort. With flames smothered by despair, you’ve molded into the darkness; among the sea of souls there, he can’t even begin to see you. He thinks that you’ll reunite once he’s there, too. 

He throws away the bitter tasting coffee, and keeps walking.

Before his life spiraled into Hell (not even a series of unfortunate events. It’s plummeted into the actual fiery pit now), he thought that humans, while fragile, were safeguarded. They’re always going to be preyed on by ghouls as long as the birdcage still hangs, but he thought that as long as investigators were near, they’d be shielded. He realizes his naïve assumption now more than ever. 

_“Wait! I’m human!”_

After everything he’s seen—everything he’s done, those words still claw at his spine with icy fingertips. 

Kaneki Ken sits down on dehydrated grass that cracks beneath his weight. He folds his legs politely, as he always does. 

Reading, years ago, was for absolute pleasure, possessing the ability to whisk him into whatever land he wanted. Never did he imagine that he’d be reading the epitaph on your cold, unvisited grave.

Maybe, as people come and go, he’ll talk of Michelangelo to you.


End file.
